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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741758">Teach Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishies/pseuds/starfishies'>starfishies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Amadeus, Amadeus 1984, Beethoven - Fandom, Historical Characters - Fandom, Ludwig van Beethoven - Fandom, Mozart - Fandom, classical music - Fandom - Fandom, music history - Fandom, wolfgang amadeus mozart - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:47:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishies/pseuds/starfishies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ludwig goes to Vienna.......you know the drill ;)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ludwig van Beethoven/Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was an uncomfortable feeling watching him work with another pupil.<br/><br/>I suppose I never really knew what to expect between the Maestro and I. Moreover, I knew that I should not have expected anything at all, as his student, it certainly was not my place to make demands – let alone assumptions about the dynamics that would become our relationship. In the days it took to bring me here, I had considerable time to conjure up a myriad of possibilities for what Herr Mozart and the city of Vienna could mean to me, and to my burgeoning career. <br/><br/>He was the undisputed King of Vienna. Without argument, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart held the title of the greatest known composer in all of modern history. I had spent my earliest years studying his work, idolizing his scores. Hours were poured into memorizing his concerti, piano sonatas and in molding myself in his honour. By late adolescence, my fingers knew his music well, and I yearned to demonstrate my improvisational skill, as much of my own creations were often inspired by his themes. I had hoped that the greatest composer known to man would be suitably impressed by my efforts, if not, at least somewhat flattered by my yearnful interpretations. <br/><br/>Herr Mozart was successful – and of that, to a level which I had greatly underestimated.<br/><br/>His music was popular, and despite his wild sense of humour and thirst for drink and play, nobility seemed to throw money at him – and so too did many eager aristocratic patrons. They requested country dances, quartets, and most profitable of all, instruction for their progeny. <br/><br/>In my mind, Mozart was somewhat of a mythological creature, a demigod.<br/><br/>Was he even real? <br/><br/>He was more like a folk tale of sorts. <br/><br/>How could it be – how simple a beginning? His story was truly remarkable. <br/><br/>A young, talented child with unearthly artistic skills, developed at home by his own father – made famous by travels across continental Europe. His music was celebrated everywhere it was performed, and Mozart himself seemed to be known to all as a darling of high society. He floated seamlessly from one social circle to the next, somehow always finding himself at the centre of its vivacity.<br/><br/>During the coach trip from Bonn, all sorts of fantastical imagery had shrouded my logic of thought. In my naivety, I had fantasized for what my future might hold as a pupil of the great master. Even as an uneducated teen, I still knew that it could only bring good fortune to carry the endorsement of such a legendary man. Just shy of my 17<sup>th</sup> birthday, my future was undoubtedly in his hands.<br/><br/>Upon arrival at the apartment on Domgasse, my adolescent imagination had given me the lightest of hearts for mecca – and the highest expectations for what this musical behemoth could truly mean to me and to my music. However giddy I may have been at the prospect of being introduced to Herr Mozart, there was little I could have done to calm my nerves. <br/><br/>How should one feel when meeting their idol?<br/><br/>I had never truly prepared myself for that moment – as I had never expected our paths to cross in all of my wildest dreams.<br/><br/>To a boy like me, Herr Mozart was practically a deity<br/><br/><em>You are getting the opportunity of a lifetime</em> – Herr Neefe had assured me as he saw me off on my journey. <em>Every budding composer dreams of studying with Mozart.</em> Neefe, my long-standing tutor, had handed me a basket of goods for the trip, undoubtedly packaged by his wife.<em> <br/><br/>You should consider yourself an extremely fortunate young man dear Ludwig.<br/><br/></em>Me? <br/><br/>Fortunate? <br/><br/>I had yet to see any fortunes made since my journey here to Vienna<br/><br/>And as to what form my fortunate should take, it remained uncertain to me still – though, I knew that in the fiery pit of my gut, I did <em>not</em> come to Vienna to disappoint. I had vowed to myself that I would not waste this chance, despite the growing mountain of copying I seemed to find myself under. <br/><br/>The shivering dissonance of an ill placed passing tone was followed by a sharp pedagogical correction. His voice suddenly re-centered my focus to the task at hand – <em>keep working Ludwig, </em>I would coach myself. I had to force my concentration. <br/><br/><em>Copying.</em><br/><br/>And <em>lots</em> of it.<br/><br/>An endless, growing pile – thick with sketches, chorales, and arias. Vocal scores upon vocal scores, <em>Latin</em>, <em>Italian, French. </em>Languages that I had little knowledge of, yet Maestro’s script was as tidy as a pin. Small miracles, it made for a relatively simple task. <br/><br/>Maestro Mozart had quickly made me his chief copyist, an activity that both assisted in churning out his scores at a blistering pace – all while keeping me occupied in what Maestro referred to as, <em>“Important repetitive exercise.”</em> My hands ached already, and yesterday’s ink had all but permanently seeped into my pores. My fingers were blackened and chapped from wash. It was no use; the ink was unscrupulous as it tainted the tips of each digit and worse yet, stained all that it touched - including the cuffs of my better shirts. <br/><br/>I pushed my sleeve back to the bend in my arm in a pathetic attempt to spare the tired linen – once the ink sets in, it is nearly impossible for the laundress to get it out. <br/><br/>This was one of the principle reasons that Herr Mozart delegated all copying to his students<br/><br/>He was a very particular man and his appearance was most definitely part of a well curated persona<br/><br/>I had once witnessed him scrubbing the pen from his hands in great agitation – <em>“You see? This is why I prefer to improvise; it saves the whole mess of ink!”</em> <br/><br/>I stared down at my unfinished work, watching Maestro’s final lesson of the day from my periphery <br/><br/>Maestro was well dressed today, though he’d hung his jacket aside for the moment <br/><br/>As he had been teaching all day, he had forgone his barber and powder. Though Maestro had lamented that morning that he felt unkempt. I felt that he looked quite dashing in his natural blonde. <br/><br/>It was a thought that I would keep to myself<br/><br/>“Second finger on C sharp” <br/><br/><em>First correction.</em><br/><br/>I swallowed uncomfortably as I watched Herr Mozart lean over the boy and strike the corrected key with considerable brashness. It was as if he thought his harshness would further prove his point of correction. Maestro Mozart was a good teacher – though he had little patience for the role.<br/><br/>“Now do it again” he repeated to the student with flat disinterest<br/><br/>Though our initial lesson had been cold – I still appreciated his guidance, regardless of the fact that Maestro rarely had much to say. I was usually his final lesson of the day, and by evening he had little energy left to give me. <br/><br/>At times, he would simply drape himself over the divan and listen quietly as I performed whatever he asked. Sometimes I would hear him dreamily humming along – at times, I had caught him dozing off completely. I was not sure as to whether I should take his lack of attentiveness as a compliment, or as an offense? <br/><br/>Clearly my playing was not exciting enough for Herr Mozart, or perhaps, he truly had nothing to offer in critique? Perhaps my skills were so great that even Herr Mozart himself found himself speechless<br/><br/>I preferred to bank on the later.<br/><br/>I grinned cheekily to myself<br/><br/>“Second finger on C sharp” <br/><br/><em>Second correction.</em><br/><br/>I glanced up towards the lesson with a smirk of amusement, and somewhat pity<br/><br/><em>Maestro hated having to repeat himself. <br/></em><br/>I simply shook my head as I scribbled onwards, <em>oh dear.<br/><br/></em>This lesson would not end well – poor lad<em><br/><br/></em>“Again!” <br/><br/>Now Maestro was barking<br/><br/>I had seen this many times before – a young student, eager yet completely untalented. Lessons could certainly cultivate structure, routine, discipline, dexterity, pitch, and rhythm. However, even with Herr Mozart as your tutor, lessons could not teach talent, artistry, or passion – and it was these innate abilities that Maestro coveted above all else. <em><br/></em><br/>Though I had not been under his tutelage long, upon observing his other lessons, it did appear that Maestro had managed to maintain more poise with me than he did with his lesser skilled pupils. With exception for those of the fairer sex of course. Anything for a pretty girl – and of them, Maestro seemed to have plenty. <br/><br/>I rolled my eyes to myself, <em>harlots!</em><br/><br/>I looked up from my scribing, quietly digesting what was now a familiar scene. Another pupil, stumbling through their exercises while Maestro grew ever more impatient. Stretching my fingers and looking over my copying, I kept half an ear open while he berated the young pianist. I did not want to lay clues that I had been watching the pair too closely, as Maestro’s private teaching was truly none of my business. <br/><br/>“We reviewed this last week, did you not bother to practice?” <br/><br/>I tried to suppress my amusement while watching Maestro pacing about the salon, wringing his gnarled fingers behind the tail of his waistcoat. He was livid. I could tell. <br/><br/>He too had the telltale smudging of an artist deeply ingrained into the delicate tips of his fingers. <br/><br/>I had studied those fingers up close during our lessons<br/><br/>Maestro needed not look down while he played – which aided in allowing my eyes to wander. During our lessons, I often wondered what it would be like to have those hands for my own. I was in awe of them, in awe of him. Mozart was truly a gift from God.<br/><br/>Maestro must have noted my quiet daydreaming as he soon narrowed his eyes towards me. When I met his steely glare of disapproval, I felt my cheeks suddenly flush. The familiar heat of timidity forced my eyes back to their own page, feeling somewhat ashamed for having allowed my mind to wander from its task. <br/><br/>I could hear the voice of my tutor now,<br/><br/><em>Do not let him catch you with your head in the clouds Ludwig – I know how you like to daydream! <br/><br/></em>Herr Neefe would be mortified to hear of anything less than excellence of my behalf. Having sponsored my journey here, I owed it to him to do my very best.<br/><br/>“Are you working over there Master Ludwig, or simply smirking while this young man struggles with the exercises I assigned him weeks ago?” <br/><br/>Hearing him address me by name was unnerving<br/><br/>It was more common for him to refer to me in less formal terms, <em>boy</em>, <em>young man</em>, or simply <em>Ludwig</em>. <br/>Herr Mozart tended to rely on formality in order to express displeasure, and it was clear from Maestro’s tone that he was not so much interested in a reply, but more so, in making his annoyance known.<br/><br/>“Yes Maestro” I replied meekly before I shamefully resumed my copying. <br/><br/>I found myself constantly readjusting in my seat. It was wooden, and largely uncomfortable however I had no authority to raise complaint in the Master’s house. It had been hours since Maestro had begun his lessons, and quite frankly – I could hardly take another hour seated in the same position. The endless hours of amateur smashing were enough to drive even the most patient of tutors mad with frustration, and it was evident that even Herr Mozart was nearing the end of his patience. <br/><br/>He raised a stern golden brow in my direction and came to lean over my work with a critical eye. Standing over me with one elegant hand placed over his hip, I eyed him closely where he stood. A thin gold band glinted dully around his marital finger. I was quite curious as to its symbolism and how at times, he dressed without it. I had yet to discover why, nor was I bold enough to inquire.<br/><br/>I meekly pushed my most recent partition towards him and held my breath as he looked over it with great calm. His face was stern and unreadable at first, that is, until a small smile of relief quietly washed over him, softening his expression into one of obvious respite. Bringing himself back to the moment, he then pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. I could tell that his disapproval was not for me, nor for the work at hand. <br/><br/>He soon handed the manuscript back without a word, placing it on the desk before me with an unexpected pat to my head. <br/><br/>“Good” was all he said as he ruffled my curls affectionately, just as one might recognize the efforts of a loyal pet. It was uncouth, and somewhat dismissive – but one simple word of praise from Herr Mozart was enough to leave me euphoric for days thereafter. It was payment enough, however insolent in form.<br/><br/><em>Maestro said I was good. <br/><br/></em>I was elated<br/><br/>I must have smiled upwards towards him, as he too gave the briefest of smiles in return. However, it was the mirth that danced in the blue of his eyes that truly made my head swirl. I continued to stare at him, in a daze of sorts, as I could hardly look away. <br/><br/>I felt warm all over - it was exciting, albeit confusing.<br/><br/>I think Maestro must have known what I was thinking – as he let out the softest of chuckles before tearing his eyes away at the sound of another’s voice, <br/><br/>“Maestro Mozart, shall I repeat the exercise once more before the lesson is over?” <br/><br/>Maestro’s smile faded quickly as he resumed his place nearest the instrument. Looming over his pupil’s shoulder while analysing the score in question, he squinted at the blackened passage. My excitement was quickly extinguished, knowing that Maestro had quickly diverted his attention back to his teaching. <br/><br/>My smile had vanished at the sound of his pupil’s voice. <br/><br/>That boy had disrupted my reverie, and torn Maestro’s attention away so unjustly! <br/><br/>I resented this particular student a great deal. He was a wealthy little dandy, with a glorious head of reddish hair that Maestro seemed to admire. He was pale in complexion, and gentle in manner, most definitely a well-bred gentleman. He took weekly lessons, usually on Saturdays, and he always lingered on a little too long for my taste. It did not take me long to identify that he was a greedy little sod who clearly preferred that Maestro directed all of his attention towards him. Did this talentless rat not realize that Herr Mozart had greater things to accomplish rather than have his fine ears assaulted?<br/><br/>Herr Mozart was too much of a gentleman to ever let on<br/><br/>It was true - I was jealous of anyone who held Maestro’s attention, let alone his affection <br/><br/>Watching Herr Mozart instruct his private students was a true challenge for me. Not for the primitive artistry that I was forced to endure – but for the envious feelings that each of his lessons caused.<br/><br/>And there were many – each and every day!<br/><br/>Maestro never stopped<br/><br/>He welcomed them into his home<br/><br/>He conversed with them, he flattered them. He complimented their efforts, even when little praise was due – all in an effort to ensure next week’s income. <br/><br/>He loved to mock his students in the evenings once his lessons were done. Herr Mozart was often making crude jokes or imitating their fledgling musical abilities for sport. He especially enjoyed when I joined him in the ridicule, most notably when he was deeply intoxicated. Herr Mozart was a lighthearted drunk who enjoyed dancing and billiards. He was far more social than I.<br/><br/>For the ladies, he’d kiss their gloved hands and flirt incessantly. His eyes would burrow deep in their bodices, and his hands would <em>accidentally</em> graze their thighs<br/><br/>It was practically shameful!<br/><br/>If their fathers had known of the filthy things Herr Mozart would dare to whisper in their daughter’s ears, they’d have likely had him placed in the pillory! <br/><br/>For his male pupils, he was far more musically demanding<br/><br/>For me, he was downright severe <br/><em> <br/>“Play it well, or don’t play it at all. I did not write this piece to be smashed about by some idiot without a care. Come now Ludwig, you’re better than this – show me some art, show me some passion.”<br/><br/></em>I deeply wanted to impress him – and when I failed to do so, his criticism was profoundly wounding. Though he did not seem at all moved by my plight. At least in spirit. Sometimes, Maestro’s vitriol was more hurtful than the physically punitive alternatives of which my father had been so fond. After all, one could not nurse a wound, but not one of the heart.<br/><br/>Conversely, when I did manage to please Herr Mozart – his praise knew no bounds<br/><br/>I particularly liked when he’d place his hands on my shoulders, watching intently while I played through increasingly complex sonatas and solos. He would stand behind me, squeezing my flesh encouragingly with a whispered accolade in my ear, <em>“Bello young Ludwig.” </em>His whisper, the rasp of his lowered voice, his hands – it all made me shiver<em><br/><br/></em>I could feel his presence long after his departure, like a phantom lurking in the deep recesses of my mind. I wanted the weight of him on me<br/><br/>I thought about him constantly – even as I lay awake in the darkness<br/><br/>I wanted something more, his music? Perhaps<br/><br/>The man himself? <br/><br/>I could hardly be sure – though my body seemed to betray my mind<br/><br/>I credited my rabid pubescent urges for my wandering mind, and berated myself for allowing such heathenness into my soul. My only hope was that he remained unaware of my thoughts, though somehow, I felt that he already knew. <br/><br/>I feared any affirmation from Maestro knowing of such delinquent thoughts. It seemed that I was plagued by the unbridled hormones of adolescence, coupled with the paralyzing awe of celebrity – and no matter what I did, the problem only seemed to mount. Admitting my interests towards him would be mortifying at best, and it would most certainly lead to an untimely end to a career barely launched. <br/><br/>No, it was not worth the risk to speak my thoughts <br/><br/>Besides, my role under him was one of learning, and nothing more. <br/><br/>“No Herr Seyfried, that’s enough for today’s lesson. We shall reconvene next week,” Maestro stood by the door, signalling the maid for the man’s coat, “<em>After</em> you’ve had some time to practice appropriately.”<br/><br/>I watched the young man gather his scores from the keyboard and fumble into his overcoat, as held for him by Herr Mozart himself. He dusted the back of the boy’s coat free from debris and patted him heavily on the shoulder. “Send my regards to your father, I should be seeing him at the lodge later this week.”<br/><br/>The young man, who couldn’t have been much older than myself, fastened his overcoat and tucked his music under his arm, “I will, indeed. Thank you Herr Mozart,” he bowed slightly, turning back towards me with a second bid of farewell, “Herr Beethoven” he tipped his hat.<br/><br/>His acknowledgement of my presence was purely ceremonial – as I had little to do with his lesson, however his breeding demanded a show of great decorum towards all of those present. I could tell he did not like me. Herr Mozart raised a dubious brow towards me with a silly smile, “Yes, thank you Herr Beethoven” Maestro repeated with a lofty grin, “For putting up with everyone today.”<br/><br/>My eyes were quick to dart away from the intensity of Maestro’s gaze, which only served to coax another chuckle from his smiling expression. <br/><br/>“Danke’ I muttered under my breath, beginning to sort my work back into its folio. I seemed to be using that word a lot lately. I had little interest in working through the evening and took this pupil’s farewell as the call to finish my efforts for the day. Herr Mozart gave me a silent nod of approval watching me pack my things. Once Herr Seyfried had finally departed, Herr Mozart found himself quick to the bottle.<br/><br/>“Drink?” he offered over his shoulder towards me as he poured himself a glass of ruby coloured wine<br/><br/>Being quiet shy, I was hesitant to reply.<br/><br/>He asked again, “Boy?”<br/><br/>“Danke” was all I could manage to say, however bashful<br/><br/>After several weeks studying under him, I was still quite daunted by his presence, and perhaps even more by the manner in which he preferred to address me. <em>Boy. </em>Yet I did not seem to take offense? Perhaps as Herr Mozart had always treated me more as man than as child – despite the juvenile title he readily employed when calling my attention. <br/><br/>But I was no <em>boy</em><br/><br/>He entrusted me with his newest creations, and confided in me with his many frustrations, both musical and personal. He would stay up til dawn while I scribed his new melodies, or even just to rant about some manner of injustice from earlier in the day. He introduced me to his patrons and had me entertain his many guests at the keyboard. He was quite proud to show me off as one of his pupils, though the musical learning in our lessons was far from significant. <br/><br/>Maestro far preferred to engage me as a peer rather than a student, and at times, it felt as if we were nearly friends. No, there was nothing at all infantile about the way Maestro viewed me, of that I was quite certain. “Come drink with me Ludwig” he laughed casually as he handed me a drink, “We both need it after listening to <em>that</em>!”<br/><br/>Taking the glass from his hands, I stared curiously into the deep red within<br/><br/>Maestro threw himself down onto the divan, nearly sloshing the drink onto the embroidered cushions<br/><br/>“My ears are aching – play me something will you?”<br/><br/>Placing the untouched glass atop the piano, I slowly assumed my place behind the keys, observing the new sketches of composition that lay scattered atop the lid. <br/><br/>“Yes, I was working on an idea for an aria earlier – it’s not quite finished yet” his words were muffled as he took a swig from his glass, “Want to try it?”<br/><br/>My eyes roamed over the manuscript carefully, it was a rough sketch to be sure. A bassline punctuated by a coloratura soprano that floated loftily above. Whomever Herr Mozart had in mind for this solo must be a master of vocal technique.<br/><br/>“If you wish me to play it, shall this be my lesson today Maestro?”<br/><br/>Often I had to remind Maestro of my lessons – as he regularly seemed to forget that I had not in fact travelled from Bonn simply to be his copyist.<br/><br/>He stared at me for an uncomfortably long time before he responded<br/><br/>“No”<br/><br/>“You do not wish me to play it, Maestro?”<br/><br/>“Not for a lesson, no”<br/><br/>“Is this a lesson then?” I was becoming rather confused<br/><br/>“If this is a lesson, play me something else – give me something different. Impress me.”<br/><br/><em>This was a dangerous game.</em><br/><br/>“I am afraid I am not sure what you mean Maestro” <br/><br/>He sat himself upright after downing the last of his drink, “Show me Beethoven – go, give me fire and brimstone or what have you. You know, the way you always do it.”<br/><br/>And just like that – he had distanced me. Uncouth, wild, beastly. I was the child from nowhere, uneducated, and brash. Herr Mozart had surely never encountered a student from such unfortunate circumstances before. Angry, heavy handed and swirling with emotion. No, Herr Mozart was far more accustomed to wealthy ladies who sunned themselves in the baths at Baden, and the young nobleman who paid handsomely for his favour. By contrast, I offered none of it. <br/><br/>Staring at my own reflection in the polished wood as I sat at his keyboard, I was suddenly keenly aware of the blackened smudge on my fingers. I swallowed against the cracking nerves that riddled the deepening tenor of my voice, and meekly swept back the wild unkempt curls that had escaped the ribbon of my hair. Surely Maestro had noticed such disarray? <br/><br/>I was certain that I was far less than what Maestro had expected in a protege.<br/><br/>He leaned back against the sofa, kicking his stockinged feet up along its edge as he relaxed<br/><br/>“Go on,” Maestro encouraged with a wave of his hand, “I’ve heard you do it before – I need to hear something that is played with power, not simply mechanics like those imbeciles from earlier today.” Maestro poured himself another drink, “Your playing is far more exciting, I quite enjoy it.”<br/><br/>I thought my heart would burst in that moment – I chewed my lip anxiously<br/><br/>“What shall I play for you Maestro?”<br/><br/>I did not want to look at him, lest I embarrass myself with babbling, so I fixed my eyes to the music instead. That is, until the familiar weight landed on my shoulders. His voice was thick with wine as he leaned in to whisper in my ear, “<em>Whatever suits you dear Ludwig</em>”<br/><br/>As I lifted my hands to strike the first chord, I felt the fleeting brush of his lips against my cheek<br/><br/>My eyes flew open and I quickly leapt up from my seat, sending Herr Mozart toppling backwards in his inebriation, “Easy, easy – what’s the matter?”<br/><br/><em>What’s the matter?!<br/><br/>The man was mad!<br/><br/></em>“You shouldn’t do that Maestro” I was mortified as I wiped the wet from my cheek with the back of my hand, “Come now, I meant no harm in it – don’t be silly child! Come, lets just forget it – play something for me, anything! Let us have our lesson, I owe you that do I not?”<br/><br/>I scowled at him angrily – <em>now he wants to teach me?</em><br/><br/>“I’m not a child Maestro!” I hastily gathered my things, “And perhaps if you managed your schedule more appropriately, you would remember that I was here as your pupil long before the arrival of any of today’s clientele. I am not sure if you have noticed, but I live here. I came here to study music. Perhaps you have forgotten that.”<br/><br/>He blinked at me in a haze of disbelief, watching me flit about the room in a rage<br/><br/>“But after spending another full day copying <em>your </em>scores – for free I might add, I am simply too tired to provide you with your evening entertainment, besides, you’re not my father - so if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed.”<br/><br/>I was panting while my fists were clenched and my jaw tight.<br/><br/>I could hardly think straight, I needed to get out of there. My mind flashed to nights where I had been roused from sleep, and made to play for jeering raucous gatherings of drunken misfits – all orchestrated by my unfortunate father.<br/><br/>Herr Mozart just stared, mouth agape as I headed for the door, “Well – wait, Ludwig!” <br/><br/>“I’ll be in my room” I grumbled under my breath as I pushed past him, “Goodnight Maestro”<br/><br/>I heard him call after me once more, but I was far too stubborn to turn back. I was headed straight for the comfort of my bed, and the asylum of my covers under which I would surely hide. I was humiliated for having lost my temper in his presence, but heartbroken over his inability to see just how much I needed his approval, his esteem, and his love. <br/><br/>I dove under the covers, burying my head under my pillow to muffle my lament.<br/><br/>My cheeks burned from both the embarrassment of losing my temper, and from my unrequited longings. Maestro was cruel to play on my desires so brazenly, and this was likely the deepest hurt of all. <br/><br/>Maestro came by later that evening to peek through the door<br/><br/>Finding me burrowed under the covers in the dark, he lingered for a moment before deciding better of it and closing the door.<br/><br/>That night, I couldn’t sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Early Lessons</h2></a>
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    <p>I felt disgusted with myself<br/><br/>It is humiliating feeling, not having control over one’s own body<br/><br/>Still, it was all somewhat new to me<br/><br/>Having largely raised myself, I had little other than my own instinct upon which to act in times such as these. Was this what men did in the privacy of their homes? Having never witnessed affection between men, I could not be sure – but damn I wished it to be true. <br/><br/>Though I had wanted to lock myself away in that tiny servant’s quarters after that lesson, and bury myself under the covers, my mind would not let me sleep. I tossed and turned uncomfortably for what seemed like hours. No matter what I did, the only thing that seemed to plague my mind was <em>him.<br/><br/></em>Was I losing my mind?<br/><em><br/>He had kissed me!<br/><br/></em>It had been fleeting, merely a soft graze upon my cheek – sudden, and entirely unexpected. There had been no warning, no reasoning, no possible explanation for this outburst. <br/><br/>Maestro’s curious choice of actions had been truly maddening – though the feelings that it had stirred were even more vexatious still. My loins ached desperately. My feral adolescent hormones were mortifyingly instant and unbridled. My body was immediately reactive to even the slightest suggestive state. <br/><br/>I was certain that Maestro must have known what for me, was so embarrassingly obvious.  <br/><br/>Someone should write a book on the tribulations of adolescence, and all of its dark and tangled webs. Looking back with all the wisdom of adulthood, I now pity myself as a young man, and all the souls still snarled in the bewildering tendrils of pubescence. <br/><br/>Those middle years are indeed an exceptionally confusing time in one’s life. <br/><br/>Late that evening, I splashed about absently in the murky bath water, more irritated by my feelings than my body was excited by them. For whatever reason, it seemed impossible to keep my mind focused. No symphonic score was dense enough, nor keyboard exercise too difficult to distract my swirling mind. <br/><br/>Instead, it was all about Maestro. <br/><br/>His laugh was what filled my ears, the brilliant blue of his eyes were what stirred my – everything!<br/><br/>I could feel these passions – <em>everywhere<br/><br/></em>Agitated, I splashed at the calmed surface of the water, if for nothing else but to stir its contents. I could not bear to be the only thing that was stirring in that moment! Seeing my lanky reflection in its surface made me nervous, who was I anyway?<br/><br/>Squirming under the discomfort of my own body, I eventually sat up, draping my arms over the roughened edge of the wooden basin. Bathing in the Mozart’s tiny kitchen was no peach, but it was indeed a necessary evil. The warmth of the bath water had long since faded, leaving me with but a damp chill that clung to the linen of my chemise. Despite the cold, I was not ready to retire to my bed just yet, and besides, the roughened wash basin was surely more comfortable than anything I had back in Bonn. <br/><br/>I was hoping to clear my head first, but the longer I soaked, the more I came to realize that this was an unlikely possibility. <br/><br/>Maestro’s maid had quietly prepared the bath without question, or complaint – and for that discretion I was thankful. The last thing I had wanted in that moment was to call any further attention to myself. I had been rude to the Maestro, stormed out in a heated display of emotion and rightfully embarrassed myself in front of what was likely the greatest artist of our time. I could not bare to see him now. I prayed that he had retired for the evening. With the house finally quiet, I began to relax a little.</p>
<p>I had never requested the services of a maid before – and I was feeling somewhat ashamed for seeking assistance with a task as domestically simple as warming a bath, though I had been relieved when her pretty face lit up in a welcoming smile.<br/><br/><em>“Of course, sir” <br/><br/></em>I stood respectfully in the threshold of the kitchen, feeling quite shy about my nightshirt and the awkward hour of request. She was tending the stove and gathering water for the next day’s wash when I had entered the small, dark room at the back of the apartment. Generally, guests were not invited into a servant’s quarters, but not knowing where else to go in order to ease my thoughts, I had supposed that a soak in the tub might help. <br/><br/>I had given little thought to the laborious aspect of such a chore, until I watched in fascination as she began to fill the various pots and buckets. She adeptly laid out the various tools and set out the heavy wooden basin nearest the stove. She carefully lined it with various sheets of linen as the water warmed. I watched curiously as she worked. She was young girl, one who was likely of my own age and status. <br/><br/>Like all of Maestro’s associates, she was effortlessly pretty – with a lovely pink smile that reminded me of Nanette. Yet somehow, this maiden seemed far more alluring. Perhaps it was the fact that she was connected to the Mozart family, or that I had caught his wink and flirtatious tone when he addressed her alone. In my mind it was simple, anyone whom Maestro deemed lovable – must certainly be so. <br/><br/>Perhaps I was a little jealous of her, in fact. <br/><br/>Naturally, Maestro would employ a charming young maiden, as he was certainly a man that enjoyed pretty things.  <br/><br/>Or through the jealousy in my own mind, was I imaging a closeness of affection between them that was not even there? The truth was that I had become quite observant of all of the characters in Maestro’s life – and through these observations, I had grown rather jealous of those he seemed to keep in his inner most circle.<br/><br/>How could I become one of these most fortunate people?<br/><br/>I wanted to be right there with them – basking in his glory, his affection, his companionship<br/><br/>No, I wanted more. <br/><br/>I wanted to be central – at the very core<br/><br/>I kept close watch over his social circles, if for nothing more than my own strategy to become part of them. Sinking low in the bath, I let out a deep sigh of frustration, placing my palms atop my eyes in order to shield myself from the world around me. <br/><br/>I prayed to be blinded, at least for the moment.</p>
<p>That is, until his voice sent chills over me<br/><br/>“Do you normally bathe at such a strange hour?”<br/><br/>Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had barely noticed him enter the room, though his voice immediately raised my hairs on end<br/><br/>Maestro had an air of nonchalance as he poured from a kettle that steamed on the stove. Though he was a man of means, it was clear that he was not above steeping his own pot of tea. <br/><br/>“Lisa would normally lay a tray out for guests – but I was hardly aware that anyone else was still awake at this hour,” Maestro seemed to chat to himself, “would you like some? I assure you that I can brew my own tea quite well.” <br/><br/>He finally turned towards me, seemingly unfazed by my bathing, while stirring his cup with a delicate spoon. He gently laid the silverware upon the saucer with an unassuming smile but said no more. I watched the cup upon the saucer as it steamed, as I was too embarrassed to meet his eye, though I could tell that he was watching me rather curiously.  <br/><br/>Maestro finally smiled again – raising the cup to his lips, and letting out the softest of laughs <br/><br/>He asked again, punctuated with an arch of his brow, “Ludwig?”<br/><br/>I was jolted into the moment by the sound of my name. I was suddenly all too aware of my precarious situation and sank as low as one could in the shallowness of the tub. In that moment, my nakedness was not exactly comforting. I was certain from the rising heat within, that my cheeks were already aflame. <br/><br/>He finished his sentence quiet calmly, with the same sentiment from before <br/><br/>“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?”<br/><br/>I was aghast, was Maestro standing in his kitchen after midnight, offering to make me a tea while I sat practically nude in front of his very eyes? I nervously gathered the wet fabric of my chemise about myself in the basin and sat myself upright in order to address him properly.<br/><br/>I cleared my throat and stammered a bit, my voice cracking in an adolescent fashion<br/><br/>“I apologize for my indiscretion earlier Maestro,” I began to sputter, unsure of what to say in this incredibly awkward exchange, “I was rude – and ungrateful, and –“ <em>couldn’t give a fodder about a cup of tea right now?....</em><br/><br/>“So would you like a tea, or not?” Maestro, ignoring my pathetic apology simply repeated his question, turning back to the kettle with a silly smirk upon his face. It was clear that he was not here for my childish atonements.<br/><br/>Thrown off by his immediate dismissal of my submissiveness, I had barely the consciousness to either accept, nor deny the offer of his drink. He continued to stand there, his eyes beginning to wander the scene before him with a sly, knowing grin.<br/><br/>“Danke” was all I could manage as I plotted my untimely exit from the bath while Maestro’s back was turned. If he made that damned second cup, it would offer me my chance to leap to freedom!<br/><br/>While Maestro soon busied himself at the stove, I quickly hopped out of the basin, dripping an incredible mess about the floor as I reached to snatch the nearest fold of dry cottons. I quickly wrapped myself before he could turn to see me, in all of my awkward teenage development.  <br/><br/>Damp ringlets clung to my face as I shivered against the chill of the air. I was not quite bold enough to move closer to the heat of the stove just yet, for that would mean, moving closer to <em>him</em>. He must have sensed my exit from the water, and the timid nature of my position as he began to hum, back still turned. Just as soon as he placed the lid atop the teapot, he came round to find me shivering in place, wrapped in spare linens, soaked through with a sorrowful look of sheepishness and a chatter to my teeth.<br/><br/>“It’ll take a few minutes to steep,” he leaned casually against the butcher’s block, allowing his eyes to rove me with a bemused expression. I must have looked quite the sight standing there in the middle of the smoky back room, part boy, part drowned rat. <br/><br/>On the other hand, Maestro had shed the formality of his jacket and rolled his sleeves to the elbow. The fine embroidered buttons of his waistcoat were open to the navel, and he had loosened his shirt just as well. It was quite the contrast from that morning’s walk through the Prater, and his insistence on wearing full powder. Maestro never missed an occasion to dress well in public. <br/><br/>All fashionable opportunities considered; I think I preferred him this way.  <br/><br/>Casual<br/><br/>A master, relaxed in the comfort of his own home.<br/><br/>“You can sit closer to the stove child, are you not freezing?” he finally gestured to the space between himself and the stove, “You will catch your death just standing there shivering like that.”<br/><br/>I could not be sure if he was simply being paternal, or if this was an attempt at luring me into renewed closeness. This was not the salon, nor was it at the keyboard – his two usual excuses for closing appropriate distances on unsuspecting prey. There was a daunting glimmer of mirth in his eye that made my stomach begin to bind itself. I felt uneasy, yet intrigued as he motioned again, this time without words.<br/><br/>Warily I conceded to repositioning myself between Maestro and the stove, <em>For warmth!</em> I reminded myself as I fixed my eyes on the plume of steam that rose from the kettle recently boiled. It hissed and sweated beside the larger iron pots that were used for cooking. I wondered how a petite lady such as Lisa could manage to carry such large pots. <br/><br/>“Better?” he asked as he contentedly busied himself with pouring a second cup. <br/><br/>He laid the fine bone cup upon its saucer and poured the steaming tea over a small slotted spoon to collect the leaves within. He smiled genuinely as he gestured towards a small table, holding out the cup for me to carry, “Come, sit with me. Nobody drinks tea standing up.”<br/><br/>And so I sat<br/><br/>At an hour past midnight<br/><br/>Maestro partly undressed, and me wrapped in sheets – teeth chattering, and prickled skin. <br/><br/>It felt all together awkward, and yet exhilarating <br/><br/>He began to ask me questions and seemed admittedly engaged in my responses. He was a gifted conversationalist, a skill that I had yet – if ever – to fully develop. Despite my state of obvious undress, I was becoming ever more comfortable as the conversation continued between us. <br/><br/>“And so, this is your first time being away from home then?” he asked as he stirred his cup<br/><br/>Watching him closely, I felt somewhat embarrassed to admit that at 17, I was indeed on my own for the first time. <br/><br/>“You’re quite lucky I suppose, as a boy I wish that I had been home more often. Moving around all the time can make for an incredibly challenging childhood.” He mused, finally gazing up at me with a vague sort of melancholic smile, “And do you like it so far?”<br/><br/>Not wanting to offend him, I quickly pushed away any feelings of loneliness<br/><br/>“Yes Maestro – I am very excited to be here in Vienna,” I paused before adding meekly, “and to be able to study with you of course.”<br/><br/>Maestro raised a curious brow, and chuckled<br/><br/>“Oh really? Even if studying with me is just, what did you call it?...<em>Copying scores</em>?”<br/><br/>I felt my cheeks flush a deep scarlet as I made to take a sip of my tea, anything to distract from the sting of Maestro’s teasing. <br/><br/>He must have noticed, as he took mercy and quickly changed tactics<br/><br/>“It’s true though – what you said early. I have not really been making the most of you here, have I?” <br/><br/>His honest admittance was surprising, though I would never dare concur out loud. He was my teacher, and it was not my place to judge his pedagogy. At least, not in a way that his ears would ever know of it. <br/><br/>He must have interpreted my silence as an accord to his earlier statement, as he eventually continued on. “You know, I’ve taught many students Ludwig. Very talented ones,” he tilted his head curiously as he peered at me, “but I think you may be the most impressive one yet.”<br/><br/>I was immediately flattered by his words, and the sincerity in his tone, which of course did little to diffuse the red of my cheeks. Maestro did not give praise often, and rarely in such a direct manner. It was an honour that I hold most dear, even to this day. <br/><br/>“Danke Maestro” I murmured under the heat of my flush – it was the best I could do<br/><br/>He simply smiled, watching me quietly.<br/><br/>Soon he rose and collected the cups, gathering them neatly on the side table as adept as any respectable maid. He was a curious man indeed.<br/><br/>“Well Master Ludwig, though I have enjoyed our engaging little conversation, I must admit that I am quite tired and would like to go to bed.”<br/><br/>My heart sank a little as he faced me, hands on his narrow hips<br/><br/>I nodded in agreement and rose from my seat, wrapping the damp cottons about myself – I was suddenly reminded of the inconvenience of my nudity. <br/><br/>Maestro blew out the candle on the sconce and cleared his throat before he spoke, “It’s probably best if you were off to bed as well. It’s quite late.”<br/><br/>I felt absolutely ridiculous in my frown, after all – what had I been expecting?<br/><br/>Though my logic did little to ease the wounded feeling in my chest<br/><br/>I trailed behind him silently until the hall way split in opposite directions<br/><br/>My eyes followed the grain of the floorboards with each step, my mind elsewhere as I trudged towards my bed at the end of the narrow hall. I was so absorbed in my own piteous thoughts that when I had finally run myself right into him, I nearly bowled right over backwards!<br/><br/>I bounced off of him with an audible <em>Oof!</em><br/><br/>Quickly looking up at the offending blockage with an expression of annoyance, I was humbly met by a pair of smiling blue eyes.<br/><br/>Confused by the events that followed, I stood slack jawed, clutching the sheets that shielded me<br/><br/>Without a word, Maestro softly extended his hand with a directive nod of his head – as if to say, <em>Come on then, this way.<br/><br/></em>I stared at him for a moment, frozen in complete disbelief<br/><br/>Finally growing impatient, Maestro seized my hand and tugged me gently, “If you want to?” he questioned with uncharacteristic uncertainty, his voice hardly above a whisper.<br/><br/>Never having been propositioned in such a way, I did not know how to react!<br/><br/>I was immobile – mute – a feral animal, stunned by its prey. <br/><br/>“That’s alright then,” he eventually broke the silence between us, releasing my hand with a look of disappointment, “I may have misjudged”<br/><br/>My eyes widened in immediate panic, <em>no!</em> <em>No – wait!<br/><br/></em>I clutched his hand desperately in my own, perhaps with a little more force than I had hoped, “No!” <br/><br/>My voice was a hoarse, desperate whisper<br/><br/>“No, you haven’t misjudged” I clarified somewhat, feeling brave enough to step closer – his hand in my own<br/><br/>Maestro’s flat expression was suddenly pierced by a glorious smile. I could tell that he felt somewhat triumphant. I could not be sure if it were due to my admission, or his perceptiveness?<br/><br/>“Come then,” he motioned with a nod of his head, “this way”<br/><br/>What came next was a serious of inexplicable events, most of which were new to me – though Maestro seemed quite prepared to nurture my fledgling skills. Despite his monumental talent, and prideful ego, Maestro was the consummate pedagogue in such private affairs as love, and sensuality. <br/><br/>He was tender and attentive. Paying close attention to every detail of the moment, Maestro was beautifully attuned to his subject, leaving no sentiment or touch unfounded. He took his time to undress, before turning his attentions towards me. <br/><br/>Shedding me of my linens rather delicately, he then wordlessly guided me to the warmth of his bed.<br/><br/>Kneeling upon its feathery surface, he hovered above me, kissing and caressing his way about my body with intoxicating skill. I wriggled instinctively against the feel, and the wet of his tongue as it travelled about. I was unsure of what to do with my hands, so I buried them in the quilts at my sides. I squeezed and tore at the patchwork, biting my lip as he demonstrated his expertise. Daring a glance downwards, I was rewarded with a mischievous grin from below. <br/><br/>“Are you still with me?” he mused, watching my chest rise and fall with every rushed gasp of breath<br/><br/>I eked out a strangled meowl in response, shifting about underneath the straddle of his hips<br/><br/>He chuckled to himself as he reached for a small vial on his night table, in the dark I could not quite make out its contents. In that moment, I was too delirious to even consider it at all. <br/><br/>He hushed me with a soothingly stroke of his palm against my chest, “Ssh, it’s alright – we’re almost there.” He petted me gently, bending down to place a gentle kiss on my swollen lips. It was sweet, and quite addicting.<br/><br/>He mused to himself for the briefest of moments<br/><br/>“This is all new for you, isn’t it?”<br/><br/>I swallowed thickly, somewhat fearful for how he might have reacted to the truth of the matter<br/><br/>It was in indeed, completely new.<br/><br/>Though something in his voice reassured me of that thought<br/><br/>I nodded silently<br/><br/>His finger traced along my jaw as he smiled down at me with a thoughtful expression, “I knew already, I simply wanted to be sure.”<br/><br/>Hearing those words – that acceptance – brought me an immediate wash of relief<br/><br/>His next kiss was slow, and tactful, as he sank himself down without warning atop me. I groaned in protest of the foreign sensation, but he refused to release me. He held me down, flat palmed against my chest, holding me to the feather bed below.<br/><br/>He only released me once I had stilled beneath him<br/><br/>“Not so bad, is it?” he teased in a whisper against my ear, kissing me once more as he began to move<br/><br/>My hands instinctively flew from my sides to his hips, digging themselves into the softness of his flesh<br/><br/>He held no protest, but simply hushed me once more, “It’s alright Ludwig…” he cooed, rocking himself as my breath began to hitch<br/><br/>A curious thing happened next as my body began to follow its own heady agenda, reacting in wicked obscenity to Maestro’s every touch. <br/><br/>I spoke<br/><br/>It bemused Maestro from above, the sound of my straining voice, against the tightened clutches of my fists. “More” I managed to gasp, to which he immediately obliged. He grinned watching me tremble under him, my breathing becoming rapid and ragged. <br/><br/>He ground himself shamelessly against me, unrelenting in his rhythm until he saw me finally break in a sudden gasp of air as I spilled into him with all of the energy and nervousness of youth. <br/><br/>Unbeknownst to myself, I had been holding my breath for some time and in that moment, I felt quit dizzy. I was glad to be lying down. <br/><br/>Panting and delirious, I whimpered in defeat as he stilled above, leaning over to kiss me quite hungrily, “Neidlich…” he murmured softly against my lips with a gentle, breathy laugh. <br/><br/>I felt no insult at his fatherly assertation, feeling him gently untangle himself from my limp body, limb by limb.<br/><br/>I was suddenly cold, though my body tingled quite pleasantly <br/><br/>Soon a heavy feather cover was tucked around me before he quickly rejoined the bed, planting himself on his side, staring with great interest towards me.<br/><br/>“And so?” he raised his brow, tucking a stray curl back behind my ear with a smile as I struggled to calm my breath. <br/><br/>“Better than copying my scores?”<br/><br/>My dark eyes met his with a lazy smile of sorts and I laughed, quite candidly. Maestro was quite playful when the mood struck, and I did adore that about him. Feeling somewhat sheepish, my only reply was a quick peck on his cheek, to which he grinned, pulling me towards him as he swallowed a yawn. <br/><br/>“We can do the second movement tomorrow,” he yawned again, “our second lesson.”<br/><br/>How like him to say such a silly thing<br/><br/>Perhaps that is what I miss most about him<br/><br/>Perhaps that is why there has never been another<br/><br/>I will be at peace until then</p>
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